


The Weight of Knowing

by clarinetta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Post Reichenbach, Stream of Consciousness, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetta/pseuds/clarinetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper has never been special to anyone until Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof at Barts. Now, she's not so sure she wants to be.</p><p>A series of short ficlets originally posted to my tumblr account.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stream of Consciousness

My name is Molly Hooper, and I speak to the dead.

It’s not what you think.

—

A dead man occupies one of my cheap folding chairs, stolen from some past church event when I still cared about God and salvation, and he is letting me lean him over the sink and dye his hair. My fingers tangle in his curls, and I am briefly thankful that I thought to trim my nails last night. He should probably be thankful too. They were becoming rather ghastly, all ragged and stained and needle sharp, little grooves cut into them, perfect for snagging on curly hair like his (not dark anymore). Don’t want to be causing him any more pain.

Ugh, what am I saying? Thank God he can’t hear me thinking.

Or can he?

…No.

Oh Jesus, am I humming? What song is this? Oh, love, you are not humming “You’re A Grand Old Flag” while you wash a dead man’s hair. Stop that. This instant.  
Now it’s too quiet. Maybe I should put on some music. I glance down at his mouth, his eyes, the tear streaks down his cheeks; he needs some silence right now. I can understand that. Being dead is a shocking and disorienting thing. Last thing this poor man needs is noise.

I think I understand, now, why he always treated me like a child. It’s because I was a child. It was a silly girl-crush, a remnant of my first relationship. (He ignored me; I loved him. He ignored me further; I loved him more. He paid the slightest bit of attention to me; I tripped over myself to accommodate his every wish. I was fifteen. We all make mistakes.)

This is different. At least, it’s different now. (I think his hair is clean now, but I keep squelching and squeezing and carding gently because when I do, he closes his eyes and doesn’t look quite so sad.) When I approached him (God, was that only yesterday), I spoke in a stutter, my words tumbling over each other, hesitant and determined. I meant every word. I didn’t want to be selfish anymore. My declaration came to a stammering train wreck of a conclusion, but I thought he understood. Maybe.

Turns out being on his radar isn’t as wonderful as I thought it would be.

Today I am washing the colour out of a dead man’s hair. Tonight the same dead man will kip on my sofa. Tomorrow I will watch him walk out of my life (a day later than everyone else, but it still hurts) and I do not know if he will ever return.

And I will have to be content with that.


	2. Pathologist, Interrupted

My hands, my hands, my fingers, digging deep, so cautious and quietly invasive, my fingers my gloves covered in hemorrhage and slimed over with organ juice and I am down inside this man and my bloody phone is going off goddamnit Sherlock I am at _work_.

Damn that man, I love him so. (I’m allowed to love a dead man if no one knows, right? Irrelevant, I suppose. Like he would say.)

Another text, in under five minutes.

Damn it.

My hands get so clammy and disgusting in these gloves. Glad to see them thrown out. Such a horrid shade of purple. Don’t understand why the hospital orders these. Why can’t we have blue or neon orange? (Contrary to popular opinion, pink is not my favourite colour. The blog layout was a mistake.)

A third text, on my way to the loo. He gets jumpy sometimes, on his own. Antsy, talkative. (The real word for it is “lonely,” but if I even so much as _think_ of him like that, as having such _pedestrian_ feelings, he’ll get huffy and not talk for weeks. Dunno how John manages.

Managed. Fuck.)

My phone is warm in my hand, alight with a dead man’s impatience.

_Anything happening in London? -SH  
How is John? -SH  
Been raining four days. Flood. Stuck on the second floor of a dilapidated hotel. Cannot make a raft with available materials. Give me anything. Any information. -SH_

My poor lonely man. God, I love him.

_It’s snowing here. It’s beautiful under the street lamps. John misses you but he won’t say it._

It’s been ten months since his death. He’s been awfully busy, for a person buried six feet deep. He hardly talks about it, but nine months ago he sent me a text that said _I’ve never killed anyone before_. I remember that so clearly, how striking it was to me that a person could sound so like a child after a nightmare just in five words.

Language astounds me.

He responds, I respond. Minutes pass.

Back to work.

—

_credit to Hippieashley for the texts from Sherlock_


	3. Alone Is an Illusion

Even though he can’t tell me, I wonder where he is. I wonder if it’s green there, or hot, or raining like it is here, or if the snow is drifting across the dirty tiny streets in bright sparkling piles.

It is so fucking _cold_ today ( _why_ did I choose to walk home from work??) One of those days where no matter how well you cover up, the rain _still_ gets under your collar and soaks through your hair and down your back and you wonder how it’s possible that it is so cold and _still not snowing_.

Weather is a right bastard.

(sometimes I think I would go motherfucking crazy if I couldn’t swear inside my head I would just pitch a fit and die of anger because god doesn’t everyone have moments-days-weeks-months where they want to just _scream at the whole world and knock everyone to their knees with their rage_ even mousy quiet morgue employees need a fucking break sometime and hasn’t this just been the best fucking week)

I haven’t spoken to anyone except Genie the receptionist in three days. She’s always nice, always blandly kind to everyone regardless of how much they dismiss her. Not speaking to her would be unacceptable. I just don’t have the energy for words anym—

Wait.

It’s a dark back street, maybe I didn’t read that right, back up back up back up—

_I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES_

Right there, it’s right fucking there in front of me and I don’t believe it. It’s too lovely, too shocking, like angel light. Can’t quite get a breath. Look around quick, snap a picture, speed away, oh my God _oh my God_

It’s real, it’s real and I didn’t ask for this, I was content to stew in the dark part of my mind and shut myself off and away for the longest time, but this—this is perfect and beautiful and I cannot keep this cheeky little smile off my face anymore.


End file.
